


Memento Mori

by mortalitasi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, General, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some secrets destroy worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goatrocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goatrocket/gifts).



> i said it on tumblr but i'll say it on here too: happy birthday b!! ♥ 
> 
> WARNING, SPOILERS FOR TRESPASSER ABOUND!

**i.**

The first time she breaks a flask of fire over her own knee, he panics, if only a little.

It looks like a spell gone wrong—the flames sprout up on her armor, in the chinks between her gauntlets, around her legs, clinging to her sides, their light turning her hair into a flickering halo of gold. But it does not burn—not her, at least—and it's evident in the way everything she touches sizzles, and in the unabashed delight present when she laughs.

He'd told the Bull, once, that violence is nothing enjoyable, a quite unfortunately necessary means to an end. But watching her fight almost makes that easy to forget. She moves with the lithe grace of a creature that knows it is dangerous, each motion an economy, daggers swift, poised upright—Roisin has a love for striking from behind, debilitating the neck, and proceeding to the next enemy before anyone else can realize what is going on. Her mind works almost as fast as her tongue. It is, in retrospect, rather marvelous.

Seconds after she finishes with the smuggler she was dealing with, she turns on her heel, neatly, near-pirouetting, and then a throwing knife is whizzing past him; the breeze it causes shears his cheek, and he hears the solid sound of it connecting with flesh. The rogue behind him collapses in a cloud of smoke, the knife embedded between her eyes. Roisin straightens, and offers a pretty little bow when the Bull gives a low, appreciative whistle.

“You could have simply warned me,” Solas tells her, and she laughs, shrugging. Leftover embers from the flask of fire are still hovering around her, tiny spots of radiance caught and held together by the weight of her presence. Beautiful.

“Then it'd have been no fun,” she replies. “Right, Sera?”

“Right. Who's next?”

Roisin makes her way to him, and bends to retrieve her knife from the corpse prone at his feet. She smells of grass and soap and sandalwood, warm and heady, and it is difficult to not look at her when she stands again, but she has other ideas.

“Live a little,” she says, and pokes the rear, not-bloodied end of the knife into his chest.

He tries to smile. If she only knew what she was asking.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

**ii.**

It is during the night of the second day that his patient stirs, her palm clutching at the straw of the cot beneath her.

Were he stronger, this business with the Mark would not take as long as it has so far—a game of push and pull. If he loses the human, the Mark is lost, as well, and with it, any chance of stopping Corypheus. Chaos reigns outside. The sky is thundering, rent asunder, bleeding demons, and he is, again, alone in his knowledge. The Seeker watches him the way one watches a circling predator. Her intuition does her credit, though in a world as blind and detached as this, it must be often mistaken for poor judgment.

The cell is only lit by the lanterns brought in by the scouts, though the Seeker most likely knows he has no need of them. More for the benefit of the human guards, he supposes. He stares down at the hand in his, appraising the Mark on the human's hand with clinical interest. They say her name is Trevelyan—a noble family, of Ostwick heritage. She certainly is Marcher. The cast of her face betrays her as such. She is a slip of a woman, pale against the ragged, threadbare pelts that are supposed to be serving as blankets. He brushes a thumb over the anchor of magic in Trevelyan's palm, not even wincing when it bites at his skin. It should have been his. That thought breaks off sharply when the human's fingers twitch, grasping at his wrist.

Her eyes open, for a moment, the thick line of her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and though she is not yet wholly present, she looks at him.

“Where—” Her voice is small, soft, the brush of feathers on stone. “Brandan...?”

A brother, a lover, a friend? Solas casts another look at the Mark, bubbling and unquiet. Still unstable. Perhaps upsetting her wouldn't be the best course of action. “He will be here shortly,” Solas says.

“G—good,” she replies, sounding relieved.

She turns her head, and it is then he notices the depth of the blue of her eyes. He never thought he'd see such a color again. For an instant, something in his heart constricts, painful, tight, then coming undone at the sight of her. It is sad, to know that when this is over, it will all be gone—even this lovely young woman with the striking gaze, who has now known at last the touch of magic, not as it should be, but known it nonetheless. At least she will die knowing, unlike the others.

“Jolly well, chap,” she mumbles, and her eyelids begin to slide closed again. “Goodnight.”

Yes, indeed. Goodnight. 

 

 

 

…

 

 

**iii.**

He always wakes earlier than her—well, honestly, he wakes before most of everyone in Skyhold, with the exception of some of the servants, because it is how he likes it.

There is time to collect yourself and your thoughts before everyone else rises, time to observe and prepare. On other mornings, he is usually gone by now, dressed, broken his fast, sifting through the day's materials. But today perhaps the quality of the sunlight coming through the tall, proud windows of the Inquisitor's quarters is what is stopping him, or the bundle of her warmth at his side, or just... the desire to be as close to her as possible without any interruption. This is dangerous and highly inadvisable.

She is lying on her side, curled up like a cat, the curtain of her fair hair spread wide over the pillow, breathing easily. There is evidence of his touch near everywhere on her, as he is sure there is proof of hers on him: the fading redness at her hips, the marks peppered across the expanse of her wondrous throat. The lines she scraped down his back last night are still sore, but not in an entirely bad manner. He should be more careful. He... should probably have more clothes on. Later. He slides down from his seat near the headboard, propping himself up on one elbow and leaning over to press his lips to the curve of her cheek.

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he murmurs against the silk of her skin. It is good she is not fully aware of its meaning.

She lets out a thoughtful hum and turns her face to the sound of his voice. “Oh... you're here.”

He smiles. “Good morning,  _vhenan_.”

Roisin nods. “Yes, do keep talking... it's so very nice.”

That coaxes a laugh out of him. “You should eat. Especially after yesterday's exertions.”

She snorts into her pillow. “Mm, because I was  _alone_  in my workout.”

“I was referring to the templars—but that as well, since you mentioned it.”

“You don't suppose any of those wonderful honeycakes are left?”

He reaches out, steals another kiss. “There is only one way to find out.” 

 

 

 

…

 

 

**iv.**

Leliana had the fragments of the orb gathered for her.

They are heavy in her hands, broken beyond repair, any of the magic that once lived in the pieces when they were whole gone. To look upon it somehow makes her unhappy, whether it's because of what it represented or because of  _who_  wanted it, she cannot tell.

He'd been devastated beyond common expectation. Keeping something from her, of course. Always keeping secrets.

 _Did you find what you'd been looking for_?

“I don't understand,” she admits to her silent room.

Perhaps she never will. 

 

 

 

…

 

 

**v.**

The green light of the veilfire flickers over the image on the wall, transforming it from a work of art into a garish vision of ink she cannot be sure is not moving.

Walking through an eluvian is like stepping under a waterfall and coming out dry on the other side, freezing and chilled to the bone, unchanged but the same, and each time she finds a new place, sees a new spirit, realizes a new fact, the voices inside rise up, growing louder. She cannot always tell what they are calling out, doesn't always catch them in time, but the sight of the mural is making them echo again, a thousand and one tones and sounds. She has been drowning in the Well of Sorrows since she stepped into it.

_Harellan, harellan. His is a face you know, know, see, see. Look! See! Always in your shadow..._

She brushes at the painted hem of the Dread Wolf's cloak, gauntlets rasping against the wall.

_Fen'Harel enansal. You have it. You always have._

“Why?” she says, aloud, the question echoing in the basement. Suddenly, the warm air of Par Vollen seems like a mantle of molten heat, wringing the air from her lungs. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Boss?”

But she is not listening to anyone with a physical voice.

_You did not ask._


End file.
